The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

enthusiasm.
    ‘Okay.’ Reception wasn’t brilliant in the house, and Holly sounded as if she were at the end of a long tunnel.
    ‘So why do you think he decided to do the writers’ course? Anything to do with the daughter’s death, do you think?’
    ‘Not directly. I had the impression that he just wanted some time away from home. Retirement didn’t suit him as much as he’d expected. He misses the routine of the job. And feeling useful. He did an English-literature evening class and that gave him the writing bug.’
    ‘Aye, well, I can see it might take some folk that way.’ Vera hated thinking about retirement. She dreaded it more than she feared illness or sudden death. ‘But why the writing thing?’
    ‘Everyone told him he wrote a good report,’ Holly said. ‘And he was reading thrillers where they got all the police procedures wrong, and he thought he could do better. I don’t think there’s any more to it than that. His daughter was at university in Manchester, so there was no contact with Ferdinand or the North-East.’
    Vera found that her tea was almost cold. She’d have to make some more. ‘Did Winterton have anything useful to say about the other residents? Anything we might have missed?’
    There was a pause at the other end of the phone.
    ‘Come on, Holly, you did ask, didn’t you? You did stroke his ego, like, and let him think we needed his help and experience?’
    ‘I did my best!’
    ‘But it didn’t work?’ Vera tried to be reasonable. Maybe it was her fault. She should have taken on Winterton herself.
    ‘He said he’d left that life behind him. It was tempting to meddle, but he knew how he’d feel if he was working an investigation and some retired officer tried to tell him how to run a case.’
    There was a moment of silence. Vera thought she heard the sound of an engine outside. It was probably Jack working in the barn, though it’d be bloody cold in there now that the light was starting to go.
    ‘Nothing more you could have done then,’ Vera said. No point blaming Holly this time. She didn’t want to knock the spirit out of her so early in the evening. Vera wanted her on top of her game for the rest of the night. ‘At least you gave it a go.’ She paused again, couldn’t help giving it one last try. ‘What was your feeling when you were talking to Winterton? Did he have his suspicions, do you think? That old detective’s instinct? He’s been living with them all for nearly a week. You’d think he’d have a notion which of them could be a killer.’
    ‘If he likes one of them for the murder, he’s not letting on.’
    There was a moment’s silence. Vera was just about to speak when Holly went on.
    ‘I’ve arranged to stay on here, just as we agreed.’ Her voice was suddenly clear and bright as if she were in the same room. ‘I’ll go to the dinner when they all read out their work, and I’ll stay the night. There’s a spare room. This is the last chance we’ve got to see them all together. They’re on their way home tomorrow.’
    ‘Lock your door when you go to bed.’ Vera kept her tone light and amused. ‘I don’t want to lose a promising young officer.’ She switched off her phone before Holly could answer. She’d only be fishing for more compliments.
    Vera put on the kettle again. No alcohol tonight. She wanted to keep her brain sharp. As Holly had said, tomorrow all her suspects and witnesses would be on their way home. Out of her patch, many of them. Beyond her control. This was a time for reflection. She wished she had Joe Ashworth here. He wasn’t much one for original thinking, but he let her know if her ideas were daft. For a wild moment she was tempted to give him a ring, to demand that he come over. Then she saw how unreasonable that would be. Let him have one night with his family. She didn’t know when he’d get the next one. She reached out and switched on the television.
    On the screen her victim had come back to life. An arts programme was running an obituary for Tony Ferdinand and showing clips of his broadcasts. He was sitting, relaxed, in a chair, talking about a writer of whom Vera had never heard. It must have been summer because sunlight was streaming in through a window. He was wearing a white collarless shirt and loose linen trousers, and his face was brown. It was impossible not to look at him. Vera found she wasn’t taking in the words, but her attention was fixed on his body, tight and fit for his age, and on